


Sherlock Holmes and the Deadly Game

by Milesy-WIPs (Milesy)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-22
Updated: 2019-05-22
Packaged: 2020-03-09 18:08:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18922330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Milesy/pseuds/Milesy-WIPs
Summary: Sherlock is a consulting detective, Mycroft works for the Ministry of Magic, and Moriarty is still up to no good.





	1. The Game

**Author's Note:**

> This is an older work that I've decided to upload for the sake of archiving everything. I may periodically come back to fics on this pseud to rework or finish later.
> 
> If you liked this fic and would like to see me continue it, please drop a subscription. This will let me know what people are interested in, and you will be notified if I decide to pick it back up.
> 
> This fic may have been recovered from a deletion email. Formatting may be weird, but I've tried to fix everything I could.

Sherlock Holmes had never been the sort for dreams or nightmares, even as a child, but there was definitely something that was keeping him from sleeping on the rare occasion that he did finally wander off back to bed. Something that kept coming to him in a haze of fog and shadow, always obscured almost entirely, but definitely there. But the more his mind tried to find it, the farther into the fog and darkness that something fell.

It meant something, and he knew it. But by the time he’d wake up, he’d forget what it was.

There were times when he’d almost forget completely – forget everything. During those increasingly frequent times, he could almost be normal. And then he’d see something out of the corner of his eye – a bird of a certain shape or a particular style of shoe – and he’d remember everything he’d started to forget; remember everything that he’d lost. And he’d almost remember why his dreams wou ld keep him from sleeping through the night. Almost, but not quite, as though whatever was obscuring the thing in his dreams was also obscuring those memories.

It was five weeks since the pool. Five weeks of sitting and waiting for something to happen. Five weeks of maddening dreams. Five weeks of John’s limp.

He was just as bored as Sherlock, but they had been so tied up in legal red tape that Sherlock hadn’t even been able to consider taking another case. It was the worst sort of boredom; that filled with busy work and doing someone else’s bidding. Lestrade, at least, would send a few files round a week for Sherlock to look at, but he was keeping them deliberately simple. He could have solved all of them on his own, and Sherlock knew it.

He was also bored enough to not point this out, look at the cases, and text Lestrade the results.  
⁂  
“You look awful.”

Sherlock looked up sharply from where he had been half-dozing in his armchair and shot John as venomous a glare as he could manage.

“You’re one to talk,” he spat back.

John laughed as he eased himself into his own chair, leaning his walking stick against the table. “Not exactly what I meant,” he said. “When was the last time you slept?”

Sherlock continued to glare at him. “I was just nearly there before you started talking.”

“Properly,” John clarified.

He never could turn off the doctor portion of his brain. Even when he was being sniped and sneered at, he still seemed to go out of his way to make sure Sherlock took care of himself.

Sherlock only shrugged and reached for a newspaper, and after a quick glance at the front page, he tossed it into the fire.

“Too bored.”

 

“I could prescribe you something,” John offered.

Sherlock had to remind himself that John was only doing what he’d been trained to do, and wasn’t likely to ever shut up about it until he got his wa y. Sherlock did quite like that about him, even if he’d never admit it aloud.

“I’ll talk to Mycroft,” he said, leaning back into his chair. “He knows my history.”  
⁂  
It took the police two months to figure out what Sherlock had known ever since he woke up with concussion and a few cracked ribs. With no one to actually try, and Sherlock and John working with the police and therefore immune, it was pointless to even go about the whole thing. Moriarty was long gone, and would only show back up when he wanted to be seen.

Two months and one day after the explosion at the swimming pool, Baker Street Station was bombed by a man in a Semtex vest. No one had seen him enter the station, including CCTV. But he was there, all the same. Just like the woman in the car park and the man in Piccadilly. Just thinking about it made Sherlock feel like his head was spinning, and he couldn’t figure out why; couldn’t figure out why no one had seen him. Could n’t figure out why he should know why no one had seen him.

There were no phone calls. No pips. No shoes or safe boxes. But everyone knew, all the same, that everyone’s favourite serial bomber was behind it.

And Sherlock knew that it was an invitation.

_Come out and play._

He and John arrived at the station mere minutes after Lestrade had sent a text, and while John busied about and tended to the injured, Sherlock inspected every square inch of the scene, including the bits he wasn’t allowed to be near. Sneaking in wasn’t difficult at all in the chaos, and had yielded not a single answer.

Sherlock kicked in frustration at the debris on the floor before marching back out to where John was helping the paramedics on the scene, doing all he could to make sure that they lost as few people as possible en route to casualty.

“I’m going home,” Sherlock growled as he passed.

John looked up at him. “I’m staying,” he said .

Sherlock looked at him. His entire posture had changed to one of confidence, every trace of self-resentment that had been present earlier that morning washed away with blood and soot.

“Of course,” Sherlock said. “I wouldn’t expect anything else of you.”

Without waiting for a response, he walked away from the scene. He was missing something, and he couldn’t see it. It was right there in front of his face, but it was as though someone had deliberately blotted it out from view.

Sherlock stopped in his tracks. There was a way for someone to hide something, and although he’d never seen it done on a person, it didn’t seem entirely impossible. Just very, very difficult. And he had completely overlooked it; forgotten it even existed. Cursing himself for making such an obvious error, he pulled his phone from his pocket and composed a text as he quickly made tracks back to 221 Baker.

_Information on James Moriarty. Urgent.  
SH_

The reply came almost instantly, and not for the first time, Sherlock found himself wondering if Mycroft had actually managed to master precognition in his spare time.

_Shouldn’t this be a matter to take up with the police?  
Mycroft_

Sherlock rounded the corner onto Baker Street proper and jabbed at the buttons on his phone.

_Ministry information.  
SH_

Cramming his phone into his pocket, he let himself into the house and quickly scaled the steps to the first floor. He completely expected to find Mycroft waiting for him in the sitting room of 221b, but he couldn’t help sneering at him regardless.

“There is no Ministry information on James Moriarty,” Mycroft said smoothly.

Sherlock moved to try to wave Mycroft out of his chair, but Mycroft refused to budge. Sherlock dropped himself into John’s chair instead.

“What do you mean, no information?” he demanded. “How?”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow and fiddled lightly with the handle of his umbrella. “Sherlock, you know the Ministry don’t keep information on muggles.”

Sherlock flung the Union Flag cushion across the room, taking a small amount of satisfaction at knocking down the lamp on his desk. “He can’t be,” he insisted.

“Can, and is,” Mycroft assured.

“Then he’s working with someone ,” Sherlock said. “Or maybe he’s just using an assumed name. Like—”

“I know what you’re going to say, and don’t,” Mycroft said stiffly, cutting his younger brother off.

Sherlock frowned at him. “Had you even considered that?”

“I admit, we haven’t,” Mycroft said. “As your little… friend uses muggle technology, it seems to us that this is a muggle issue. Not our place to look into it.”

“What about the victims?” Sherlock demanded, verging on shouting. He leaned forward, constantly reminding himself that strangling Mycroft would not actually solve his problem.

“What about them?” Mycroft asked, irritatingly calm.

“I’m sure you’ll find they all had an obscurum charm used on them,” Sherlock said.

Mycroft’s eyes darkened and Sherlock couldn’t help back away slightly.

“You can’t ban me from mentioning it,” Sherlock said stiffly.

“Can’t I?” asked Mycroft. He pulled o ut his pocket watch and studied the face. “Do you know, I’m not sure how wise these living arrangements of yours are.”

“Mycroft,” Sherlock said, trying not to sound like he was begging. “Don’t. I’m serious. There’s no other possibility. He’s either using an assumed name or he’s working with someone.”

Mycroft stared at Sherlock for a few very long moments before breaking into a light smile. “And what, dear brother, would he want with you if this were the case?” he asked. “Very good. You almost had me this time.”

“Stop it,” Sherlock said as he sunk into the chair, crossing his arms tightly across his chest.

“You’re getting very convincing,” Mycroft went on. “I may have to have your surveillance level increased.”

It was as though Mycroft had stabbed him through the chest. He had expected this distrust from everyone else, but that Mycroft had begun to buy into it as well was physically painful.

“ God, Mycroft. No, don’t,” Sherlock pleaded. “People have died. More people will. I don’t know why he’s so interested in me, but he’s not going to stop until he gets what he wants.”

“And what is that?” asked Mycroft.

“I don’t know,” Sherlock said forcefully. “And you’re not making it any easier to find out.”

Mycroft stood, looking down his nose at Sherlock. “This is a police matter,” he said. “Keep it with them.”

“You only care about muggles when they’re about to jeopardise your secrecy, then?” asked Sherlock. “But when someone starts killing them, it’s their problem. That sounds like the old Ministry to me.”

As soon as he said it, he knew it had been a mistake. He tried to make himself seem smaller, hoping that maybe Mycroft would take the outburst for what it was, but the tilt of his brother’s head suggested otherwise.

“I’ll send details of your updated status tomorrow,” Mycroft sa id. “Make sure someone’s home to sign for it.”

Sherlock groaned. “Just send an owl, like a normal person.”

Mycroft allowed himself a small smile. “Muggles don’t use owls. You know that.”

Sherlock buried his face in his hands, ignoring Mycroft as he left. He wasn’t even sure if Mycroft could manage to have his entire status re-written, but just the idea that he could was an insult to his very core. He let himself sink into the chair, wanting it to just swallow him whole. By this stage, he hardly saw any point in sticking around anyway.

When John returned later that night, covered in ash and blood and definitely not limping, he paused in the door to look at Sherlock, where he was still curled up in John’s chair.

“All right?” he asked.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock muttered.

John nodded. “I’ll take a quick shower and then put the kettle on,” he said before going upstairs, taking them two at a time.

Sherlock sat up just enough to look at the spot where John had been standing, feeling a creeping sense of paranoia. No, it was just that. There was no way John could have known. He was no doubt just used to Sherlock being in a strop after visits from Mycroft, regardless of the topic of discussion.

Sherlock sighed and sank back into the chair, part of him wishing that John had known. At least then he could have someone to shout about this whole matter at.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I stream on Twitch on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Fic, podfic, fanart. Follow me for sneak peeks and exclusive content. [Twitch.tv](https://www.twitch.tv/milesy)


	2. Observations and Negotiations

Sherlock had barely moved all night, neglecting the tea John had made him. At some point, he had wandered back to his room for just long enough to fling a few things about and make an even bigger mess than had already existed before returning to the front room with a pocket sneakoscope he hadn’t realised was still in his possession.

He sat curled up in John’s chair, idly flicking at the sneakoscope on the small table next to him, giving it an occasional light spin with his fingers. It was absolutely useless in this world, since he couldn’t properly explain what it was, but the fact that he still had it at all was enough to calm him slightly.

Sherlock hadn’t noticed John’s presence until the sneakoscope began whistling. Wondering when it had become morning, Sherlock snatched up the device and shoved it into the chair in an attempt to muffle the noise it made.

“Morning,” greeted John. “Feeling any better?”

Sherlock grunted, punctuating the sound with a light shrug.

“What did he say to you to get you so worked up?” John asked as he took the leather chair. “I’ve never seen you like this before.”

“I am not worked up,” Sherlock argued.

“No, quite the opposite, I think,” John said. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

“I’ll be fine.”

He could still hear the sneakoscope whistling from inside the chair and remembered why he had hidden it away in the back of his wardrobe to begin with. Just as he was beginning to suspect that John could hear it as well, he was saved the uncomfortable conversation by the bell ringing.

“That’ll be from Mycroft,” Sherlock said.

For a moment, John seemed to be waiting for something before getting up with a sigh and heading downstairs. As soon as he was out of the room, Sherlock dug the sneakoscope – again silent – from the chair and glared at it.

“ Traitor,” he said to it. “You’d think something like this, they’d be able to programme it to only work one way.”

This time, he heard John’s footsteps on the stairs in time to cram the device back into the chair. He shifted enough to be able to watch John as he walked into the flat, looking at the large envelope that had been delivered.

Mycroft really had gone out of his way to make it look like a muggle parcel.

“What’s this all about, then?” John asked, handing the envelope over.

Sherlock took it and immediately flung it into the fire. “Don’t care,” he said.

“Hey!” John snapped. “It’s a gas fire, Sherlock. Quit throwing stuff in it.”

In a childish fit of spite, Sherlock picked up several pieces of paper from the table and tossed them into the fire as well.

“Great,” John said, getting back to his feet. “I hadn’t paid those yet. And you can clean that out, by the way, because I’m sick of doing it. And don’t you dare get Mrs Hudson to do it for you.”

He walked into the kitchen, filling the kettle as loudly as possible.

“Make enough for Mycroft!” Sherlock called out. “He’ll be here shortly.”

“Have you considered a restraining order against him?” John asked from the kitchen. “Seriously. I don’t know what he’s up to, but whatever it is, I don’t think I like it.”

Sherlock tried to frown at him, but without a direct line of sight, he wound up frowning at the room in general.

“Mycroft could be in a dozen places at once if he wanted,” Sherlock said. “There’d be no way to enforce it.”

John ventured back out to the sitting room, giving Sherlock a wide berth as he made his way to the sofa. “Your brother’s scary,” he declared.

“He gets that from our father,” Sherlock said.

He knew that John was expecting him to elaborate, but he had no idea how to explain just how properly scary Creighton Holmes had been without sounding completely mad. Best to leave some things vague.

Before John could press the issue, the bell rang again and Sherlock sunk deeper into the chair. He heard John sigh as he rose to his feet to let Mycroft in, wondering if he might be able to pretend to be asleep.

“Come now, Sherlock. Let’s not play games,” Mycroft said as he entered the flat.

Sherlock sneered at him, and while he didn’t actually tell Mycroft to get out of his head, he was fairly certain his older brother got the message regardless.

“I won’t be staying for very long, John,” Mycroft said easily as he sat down in the chair opposite Sherlock. “Don’t bother with finding a clean cup.”

Sherlock glared at him. “Isn’t there a law against what you’re doing right now?” he asked.

“Dear brother, I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” Mycroft said with a smile.

Sherlock continued to glare at him for a fe w moments longer before reaching for his wallet in his trouser pocket. He tossed it in John’s general direction, knowing it would catch his attention.

“Run to the cash point for me,” he said. “I need fifty pounds.”

“Right now?” asked John. “Why?”

“I don’t know. Use your imagination and make something up on the way,” Sherlock said.

John picked up the wallet and gave up on the tea. “Why do I get the feeling you’re trying to get me out of the way?” he asked.

“Excellently observed,” Sherlock said. “Come back in about twenty minutes.”

He waited in silence for John to find his shoes and leave, staring into the fire the entire time. As soon as John was out of the flat, Mycroft leaned forward in his seat and offered Sherlock a stack of documents that no doubt matched the ones he had earlier tossed into the fire. Sherlock refused the documents, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I don’t want to hear i t,” he said. “There’s a process for this sort of thing, and I’m positive you haven’t followed it.”

Mycroft only smiled as he relaxed into his seat. “You already fit into their world so well,” he said. “I don’t see why you should be fighting this.”

“That’s not the point.” Sherlock shifted to try to turn away from Mycroft as much as possible.

“With security levels being raised, and based off of your recent action, the ministry have deemed you unsafe,” Mycroft said simply.

“What recent action?” Sherlock demanded.

“It was only a matter of time before word of the explosion at the swimming pool got out,” Mycroft said. “How many people lost their lives that night?”

“You told them,” Sherlock accused. “Why?”

“And could you imagine the hell that would have befallen me had I kept it a secret?” asked Mycroft. “As though we don’t have enough problems already.”

“Shut up,” Sher lock snapped.

Mycroft just continued to smile at him. “You should know that your surveillance level has been elevated. And in addition to the Trace, you’re not permitted to possess any magical items. Of any sort.”

“It’s mine,” he said. “And it’s hardly magical at all. It’s just a cheap toy.”

“All the same,” Mycroft says. “I’ll have it now. And anything else you have squirrelled away in here.”

“You can’t do this.”

“Can’t I?”

“I haven’t done anything wrong,” Sherlock snapped.

Mycroft’s smile widened. “We both know that’s not exactly true,” he said. “You’re lucky to be here at all. Most people in your position aren’t given a second chance. You’d be wise to do as you’re told.”

Sherlock finally sat up straight. “I’m fighting this,” he said.

“You can try,” Mycroft told him. “You always did like to try to accomplish six impossible things before break fast.”

Sherlock jumped to his feet. “Get out!” he shouted. The lights in the flat flickered briefly, but he ignored it, and the smug look on Mycroft’s face. “If you’re not here to help me with my case, then you are not welcome in this house.”

Mycroft stood, leaving the documents on the table next to him. “Very well,” he said. “It still doesn’t change anything.”

“I don’t care,” Sherlock said. “I have work to do, and you’re in the way.”

With a tilt of his head, Mycroft walked out of the flat as Sherlock tossed the second set of papers into the fire. Even with him gone, Sherlock could barely keep himself from shaking. He began pacing the length of the sitting room. He was right. He knew he was, even if Mycroft refused to help him. There had to be a way to prove it, even without his help.

Maybe there was. There was absolutely nothing stopping him from carrying on as he’d always done, even if it meant asking a different set of questions. He ran to his bedroom to change into something clean before darting off down the stairs to fetch his coat. As he opened the door to the street, he nearly ran into John. Grabbing him instead, Sherlock pulled him back to the kerb and glanced around for a cab.

“What’s going on?” John asked.

“We’re going to talk to somebody,” Sherlock answered as he held his arm up to signal an approaching cab.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I stream on Twitch on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Fic, podfic, fanart. Follow me for sneak peeks and exclusive content. [Twitch.tv](https://www.twitch.tv/milesy)


	3. Interrogation

It was the first time they’d had any contact with the victim. Before, he was boring. His story was the same as the others so Sherlock had let Lestrade and his team handle the interview.

But Lestrade and his team had asked the wrong questions. Just as he would have done had he interviewed the man after the kidnapping. But this time, he was determined to do it right. Not just in asking the questions, but in how he presented the interview, right down to the hand-held tape recorder in the middle of the table.

“What do you mean, unusual?” the man – Davies – asked. “You mean unusual beyond being grabbed out of a tube station toilet and shoved into a coat filled with bombs?”

He’d been traumatised by the whole incident, and it was rather difficult to blame him. It didn’t help that Sherlock was still asking the wrong questions. He wanted to ask the right questions, and even knew exactly what they were. But phrasi ng them to avoid getting the Ministry breathing down his neck was proving rather impossible.

“I think,” John said, shooting a cautious glance toward his friend, “what my colleague means is did you see anything just before?”

Wrong.

“After,” Sherlock clarified.

“What, after they grabbed me?” Davies asked.

Sherlock sensed a new avenue and quickly dove at it. “How many is ‘they’?” he asked.

“Two blokes,” Davies answered. “I told your inspector. They grabbed me and dragged me out to a van. Big white one. No windows. That’s where they put the bombs on me and then let me go. They told me where to stand, and that if I tried to take the coat off, they’d set it off.”

“Could you describe them for me?” asked Sherlock.

Davies thought about this. “No,” he said. “I couldn’t see their faces.”

“Did they have masks on?” asked John.

He was missing the bigger picture, but it was a good question. And an answer Lestrade had assumed as a given, no doubt. Davies considered it for a long time, growing more confused by the moment.

“No,” he said eventually, becoming increasingly confused with the situation. “I don’t think they were. They were just… normal.”

“But you didn’t see their faces?” asked Sherlock, leaning forward in his seat. Of course the Yarders would have missed this. It was probably all part of the charm.

“No,” Davies repeated. “I don’t…”

“And no one saw you being forced through a crowded station and into a van in broad daylight?” asked Sherlock. “Nor did anyone happen to see you standing in the middle of Piccadilly all day with laser sights aimed at your chest? I know people in London don’t look at one another, but even that seems a bit unusual, wouldn’t you say?”

Davies’ face turned bright red. “Listen, if this is about you not believing me, I already spoke with your in spector! I had nothing to do with that!”

Sherlock stood slowly, letting a broad smile spread across his face. “Oh, I assure you, Mr Davies. I believe every word you’ve told me,” he said.

He picked up the tape recorder and walked out of the room, ignoring the confused huffs from both Davies and John. He was right and he knew it. But there was absolutely nothing he could do without Ministry backing. Muggle police would be absolutely useless even if they did know the full story. And he couldn’t give them the full story anyway, because he’d either wind up sectioned by them or arrested by the ministry.

John stayed inside long enough to thank the man before rushing back out to Sherlock’s side.

“What was all that?” he asked once he reached the pavement. “Are you aware that you’ve been acting like a lunatic the last few days?”

Sherlock glared at him. “I have a theory,” he said as he gazed down the street.

“Care to share it?” asked John.

He considered this. Would it be safe to? Maybe he could get some sort of special exception for John; the sort they grant when a witch or wizard marries a muggle.

“Mmm. No,” he decided. “Not yet. Just a hunch. Need more information.”

John continued to stare at him. “Since when do you have hunches?” he asked. “You always act like you’re some sort of psychic or something.”

Since he was dealing with a subject he hadn’t even spoken about in nearly twenty years, that’s when. But John didn’t need to know that much.

“I need to go catch up on my reading,” Sherlock declared. He ignored John’s baffled stare and set off back down the road to find a cab.

⁂

Once back at Baker Street, Sherlock all but leapt out of the cab and rushed up the stairs to his room. He paused long enough to remove his coat and toss it at the sofa before continuing his path. He could hear John following him, no doubt wan ting to talk about something. Hoping to prevent this, Sherlock shut his door.

He still had all his old school books, hidden away in a trunk along with scores of muggle magic books and props. At first, he had found the muggle method rather ridiculous until he had tried some of the tricks himself. Then he found them complicated and ingenious. He’d even committed a few of the tricks to memory, and had a sizable collection of warrant cards to show for it.

The spell books were buried at the bottom of the trunk, and to get to them, Sherlock simply lifted one end of the trunk and upended its entire contents. He had, rather unfortunately, misjudged the amount of noise a collection of very large books makes when it’s left to drop to the ground and could hear John rushing toward his room. No doubt making sure he hadn’t killed himself.

“Everything’s fine!” Sherlock shouted.

“I thought you were reading,” John called through the door.

“I am !”

“I think you should look up the definition and try again,” John told him before wandering back to wherever he’d been.

Sherlock waited until he couldn’t hear John any more before digging through the pile of books. Eventually, he found Achievements in Charming, and for good measure, dug grade six of the Standard Book of Spells from the pile. He somehow doubted that what he needed would be in either book, but until he could bribe someone to take a trip to Diagon Alley to fetch grade seven, and anything else on the subject for him, it was the best he could do.

He’d skimmed through about a quarter of _Achievements in Charming_ when John shouted at him through the walls again. He was in the kitchen, by the sound of it.

“Some tosser claiming to be your cousin just showed up!” came John’s voice.

Sherlock looked up from the book as he tried to work out what John might have meant by that.

“What?” he shoute d back, hoping John might come back and explain himself.

He didn’t. He continued shouting. “Well, he wasn’t here, and then he was!”

It took Sherlock almost no time at all to realise John’s implications. Tossing the book toward the foot of his bed, he jumped up and rushed out to the kitchen, finding John holding a rather large butcher’s knife in front of him as Castor Black did the same with his wand. Of all the Not Good things to happen, this was without a doubt amongst the worst.

“Put those down,” Sherlock spat at the both of them. “Castor, you can’t just apparate into my kitchen.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose, hoping a solution to what was now a very big problem might come to him on its own accord.

“Sorry,” Castor said, still hesitant to lower his wand. “It’s just that, well, last I spoke with anyone, word was you were still on your own.”

“Not since January,” Sherlock told him. Although, he had no idea how long it would remain the case.

Castor and John continued to stare at one another, John still gripping his knife and Castor still ready to stun or obliviate him.

“He’s a muggle,” Castor pointed out, almost as though Sherlock hadn’t noticed.

“Oh, don’t act so surprised,” he snapped back.

“It’s just that… well. I am,” said Castor.

Sherlock glared at him. “Well, now that you’ve blown my cover – quite spectacularly, I might add – perhaps you’d mind telling me why you’re here. You never were the sort to just drop by for tea and biscuits.”

“Oh. Er…” He finally lowered his wand, prompting John to do similarly with his knife. “I was speaking with Mycroft this morning. He let drop that you’ve got some new case on. Right before he said some… other things.”

Sherlock looked to John, who still hadn’t taken his eyes off of Castor. Then again, the man had shown up out of nowhere, which ev en Sherlock had to admit wasn’t exactly normal behaviour. Not at least from a muggle perspective.

“John, could you—”

“No,” John said, cutting him off. He still gripped the handle of his knife tightly. “I think I’ll stay here, thanks.”

Sherlock gave up fighting it. He could always have Castor obliviate him anyway, and hopefully still keep him around as a flatmate. He walked out of the kitchen and into the sitting room, falling gracelessly into his chair.

“Do I even want to know what Mycroft was saying?” he asked.

Throwing a nervous glance in John’s direction, Castor followed after Sherlock and took a seat in the chair opposite him.

“He thinks you’re behind it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I stream on Twitch on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Fic, podfic, fanart. Follow me for sneak peeks and exclusive content. [Twitch.tv](https://www.twitch.tv/milesy)


	4. Surprises

Sherlock still remembers the day he got his wand. He had been looking forward to the trip to Ollivander’s all week, and practically ran into the cramped shop on Diagon Alley. The selection process had taken Mycroft over two hours, and expecting much of the same with Sherlock, his father had left him in the shop while they attended business of their own.

He’d tried wand after wand with no result from any of them. Usually something would at least explode or fly off of shelves, but Sherlock wasn’t able to even produce the most basic of sparks. He had begun to panic. What if no wand chose him? What if he had to go to Hogwarts without one? What if they wouldn’t let him in because he couldn’t find a wand?

Sensing Sherlock’s growing desperation, Ollivander had patted him on the head and told him to wait where he was for a moment, before disappearing down into the cellar. He’d returned several minutes later with his arms full of boxes much larger than those he kept on the shelves on the ground floor. Even though there was no official distinction, there were some wands that just weren’t used by students. Their personalities weren’t suited for the classroom. They didn’t learn well and would even misbehave when bored.

It was 17 ½ inches, birch with a dragon heartstring core. Unwieldy and temperamental, Ollivander had called. Narrow and all sharp edges and hard angles, it had barely fit in Sherlock’s eleven-year-old hand. Sherlock stared sceptically at it for a long moment, not quite sure what to do with such a large thing.

“Give it a go,” Ollivander had encouraged.

Still nervous that nothing would happen, Sherlock had done as Ollivander had said, surprising himself when vibrant red sparks flew from the wand and crashed into one of the high shelves, spilling boxes and wands onto the ground.

He was so excited that anything at all had happened that he didn’t even wait for his father to return to the shop, paying Ollivander from his own pocket money before rushing out to show Mycroft what he could do.

⁂

Twenty-five years later, Sherlock Holmes sat before the fireplace in a small terraced flat in Muggle London, listening to his cousin bring news of betrayal and deceit.

“He thinks—?” he kicked at the hearth with enough force to rattle everything on the mantel and nearby shelved.

“Woah, calm down, mate,” Castor said. “He can’t prove anything.”

Sherlock snorted. “This is Mycroft we’re talking about,” he said. “He doesn’t need actual evidence. He’s perfectly capable of fabricating it.”

“All the more reason to be careful,” Castor told him. “I know he’s family, but since when has that ever mattered in this family?”

“He wants to have my status re-written.” Sherlock sunk further into the chair with a heavy sigh.

“Can he even do that?”

Sherlo ck shrugged dramatically. Looking at the two of them, John gave up on working out what was going on between then and wandered back into the kitchen.

“Tea?” he offered. He was making an obscene amount lately, but it seemed to be the best way to cope with some of the people who came round to see Sherlock. “I’m putting the kettle on if anyone wants tea.”

Sherlock and Castor ignored him.

“But,” Castor said, his voice lightening slightly. “After your brother thoroughly scared the hell out of me, I went to go have words with Weasley.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at Castor. “Which one?” he asked.

“Arthur.”

“That daft old man?” asked Sherlock incredulously. “What can he do?”

“As the Minister of Muggle Affairs?” asked Castor. “Quite a lot, I’d imagine.”

Sherlock shot forward. “No,” he said. “When did that happen?”

“About three years ago,” Castor told him. “You could imagine how Mycroft must feel, having to answer to him.”

Sherlock let out an amused laugh at the very thought. But he knew that Castor hadn’t come out to Muggle London just to tell him that old news, and he sobered quickly.

“But,” continued Castor. “I got to talking with Weasley about these attacks, and he agrees. Something isn’t quite right. But there’s no proof of any magical misdeeds, so he can’t do anything.”

Sherlock let a smile creep across his face. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” he said.

“I thought you might say that,” said Castor. “That’s why I went to Weasley. If you think you can help, he wants to see you.”

Sherlock sat up slightly. “When?”

“Today. Soon as you can get down there,” Castor said. “I don’t know about your, uhm… your muggle—”

“Friend,” Sherlock corrected forcibly.

“Right. Well, either way, I’m not sure they’ll let him in.” Castor shifted awkwardly, knowing that John could hear every word that was being said, even if he was keeping quiet in the kitchen.

Sherlock looked up at John, who was paying far more attention to the tea than was strictly necessary.

“Right,” Sherlock said to Castor. “Duly noted, thank you. We have some small matters to sort out before we’re on our way.”

He gave his cousin a hard stare, discomforting him into standing up awkwardly.

“Well, then. I’ll just… should I…?”

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. After looking round the flat, as though searching for an alternative, Castor shrugged weakly and disappeared with a light popping noise. For a few long moments after, the flat was completely silent. Sherlock waited for the inevitable outburst, watching John stare at the kettle.

“A little warning for that sort of thing would be nice,” John said finally, keeping his voice impressively calm. He quickly finished the tea and brought two cups out, hand ing one to Sherlock. “It’s just the sort of thing that isn’t very good to have sprung on a person.”

While John was handling the situation better than Sherlock had expected, he was still struggling to find a way to explain the extent of the situation.

“I suppose I was going to have to tell you sooner or later,” he said bitterly, sneering at his tea.

“It’s fine,” said John. He said it the way he said everything else was fine, as though, through the eyes of John Watson, it really was fine.

“John, I’m not sure you understand,” Sherlock said slowly, grasping for words he’d never known how to string together. “My cousin—”

“Sherlock, it’s fine. Really,” John said, meeting Sherlock’s eyes. “Can you do it too, or did it skip over you like it did Harry and me?”

“No,” Sherlock insisted forcefully. “No. I—what? You?”

John nodded sullenly. “My mum, yeah.”

Sherlock realised the n that it really was fine. He could talk about it in ways he hadn’t been able to for years.

“I can,” he said. “Technically. I’m just not allowed.” It hurt to admit. It always did. But there was something else, as well. Something like a weight on his chest that he hadn’t even realised was there until it had suddenly lifted. He hadn’t realised until just then how much he hadn’t liked lying to John about the matter.

He also didn’t like the way John laughed. Not a malicious laugh. A fairly benign, friendly laugh actually. “What’d you do?” he asked. “Piss someone off.”

Sherlock’s gaze fell to the floor, and he could practically hear John’s smile dropping.

“Killed someone, actually,” Sherlock said. He’d never admitted it aloud, and hoped he never had to again.

“Jesus,” John said quietly.

“It wasn’t intentional,” Sherlock told him.

John shook his head. “Didn’t think that it was.”

Sherlock found himself smiling in spite of the subject. Unpredictable, wonderful, perfect John. Why had it taken so long for Sherlock to find him?

⁂

Sherlock will never forget the day he lost his wand. He had hated Professor Fletcher with every particle of his being. The fact that he was muggle-born was purely incidental. Sherlock would have hated him had he been a direct male descendent of Salazar Slytherin.

He was certain that Professor Fletcher had hated him because he was a Holmes.

Sherlock had stolen the book from the restricted section of the library. Getting at the thing had been a rewarding challenge in and of itself, and now that he had it, he’d intended to put it to good use. The potions it contained weren’t anything too terribly difficult, unless you had slept through every potions lecture ever, and save for one, not even particularly dark. The one he was experimenting with was, however, quite volatile until it had had a chance to set tle, which would take nearly a fortnight. It would have been a perfectly safe, perfectly fun mild hallucinogenic draught, had he not been caught by Professor Fletcher. When Sherlock had refused to pour the draught down a drain, Fletcher had done it for him.

The next thing Sherlock knew, he was in the hospital wing following an explosion that had killed a muggle-born professor, and the name on everyone’s lips was Holmes. And why not? He had openly hated the man and his own mother had spent time in Azkaban before evidence could be found to prove she was acting under the Imperius Curse. He’d been labelled a blood purist before he’d even started his first year at Hogwarts.

It was Dumbledore himself who had broken Sherlock’s wand in two, which he did with a heavy apology.

“There’s greatness in you, Sherlock,” he’d said. “But not everyone will be able to recognise it.”

When Mycroft showed up later that night, it was to inform Sherlock th at he was being taken home the next morning. The words he’d chosen were benign enough, but Sherlock knew that tone. It was the tone Mycroft would use to parrot their father’s words without having to actually repeat them. The tone that told Sherlock their father was not happy. And Sherlock knew why. Creighton Holmes was not upset over what had been done, but doubtlessly by the carelessness through which the ends had been achieved.

Not wanting his father’s praise, backhanded though it may be, Sherlock waited until the castle slept before sneaking out through one of the secret passages he’d found over the years, swearing he’d never go home again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I stream on Twitch on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Fic, podfic, fanart. Follow me for sneak peeks and exclusive content. [Twitch.tv](https://www.twitch.tv/milesy)


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